


strange desire

by jugandbettsdetectiveagency



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: 80s fic, Alternate Universe, F/M, Summer Romance, There will be fluff, hopefully it'll be a ride, there will be angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:35:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23122600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jugandbettsdetectiveagency/pseuds/jugandbettsdetectiveagency
Summary: Betty replaces her own sunglasses, pushing the hearts flush against her eyes to hide her gaze. From over the pool his eyes flick up. He’s seen her looking, she’s sure of it. He’s cast in shadow where he stands but Betty inherited her eagle eye from her mother—he’s blushing.Or, it’s 1985 and it’s a cruel, cruel summer.
Relationships: Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Comments: 13
Kudos: 77
Collections: 7th Bughead Fanfiction Awards - Nominees





	strange desire

**Author's Note:**

> funnily enough I came up with this fic idea at least half a year before lover came out, but that cruel summer is just as apt for the vibes of this fic so I'm pretty down for it. the cruel summer I was actually referencing was bananarama, so take your pick.
> 
> title from the album by bleachers - it kind of inspired this whole thing.

**June 1985**

There’s lavender growing over by the far wall. 

Betty can smell it from where she sits, subtle wafts highlighting the breeze as it ebbs and flows with the wave of the pool at her feet. It’s calming, in a way—it’s cloying in others.

There was a huge tangle of it growing in Grandma Cooper’s yard when she was young. It blankets the memory of her summer days, thick and heavy and rich, and always buzzing with the sound of honeybees, bringing sentience to an otherwise quiet slice of nature. It was there when she ran through sprinklers with her sister, Polly, and when sat sunburnt and sated, waiting for her dad to call her over to the grill. It reminds Betty of the pale dusk skies that never turned to night, that stretched on and on in her memories of childhood summers. When time stood still and swirling all at once. 

When the leaves began to change they’d coppice it together, her and Grandma Cooper, drying the buds and crushing the leaves, storing away those stagnant summer days in little warm oat pouches her grandma told her to put next to her pillow at night. It still made her sleepy, that smell, smoothing out the knots of tension in her limbs and creases in her skin. 

But right now it feels off. That calming, herbaceous smell invades the air, mixing with the heavy chemicals of the chlorine filled pool, prickling in her nose. Everything feels off kilter in these first few days of summer—the last of  _ these _ summers—and the lavender is only adding to whatever has been setting Betty on edge since the final bell had rung on the last day at Riverdale High.

She’s pulled out of her reminiscence by a shout.

“You little twerp!” 

Betty lifts her sunnies to her forehead to squint over at Veronica’s lounger. Her friend has risen from her relaxed position and is hastily wiping water droplets from her dry bathing suit with one hand, the other patting down her sleek hair, glinting in the June sun. 

“V, you’re by a pool on a weekend, during summer. And you’re wearing a swimsuit, what did you expect?” Betty asks, settling back against her towel. She pauses for a moment before reaching for the sunblock by her side, rubbing some across the burning she can feel on her chest and the tops of her feet. She’d read something about the increasing impact of UV rays recently and was getting a little paranoid. But not so much that she didn’t immediately take up Veronica’s offer to come hang out at her family’s resort on the outskirts of town. 

“For the clientele to be a little more highbrow. I should not hear, see, or think about the word  _ cannonball  _ around Daddy’s pool.” Veronica leans herself back, seemingly satisfied she’s dry enough, and takes a sip of the virgin mojito slowly warming in the midday temperatures. 

Betty rolls her eyes fondly, covering them back up with the heart-shaped sunglasses she’d stolen from her sister. The newscasters were already saying this was shaping up to be one of the hottest summers on record, and Betty had no doubt about it so far. Her body seemed to be constantly emitting a low hum of warmth, the skin around her hairline peeling from where she’d been careless with her protection. 

The sky was that light hue of blue that looked as if it was covered by a filmy haze, trapping the heat beneath until it rippled in endless waves on the air, stealing your breath and causing a constant sheen of sweat to bead along your skin. 

It was fitting, Betty thought, that nothing seemed to move under this type of weather, the whole town existing in a sluggish daze. The end of high school had always been so far off before coming all at once, like cresting a snow drenched hill on tiny legs, dragging the sledge behind you, and flying down the other side in the blink of an eye. 

But now she was on flat ground again, and whether it was the heat or the promise of a long, hot, lazy summer stretching out before her, Betty felt as if she were floating in some liminal space that looked like her home but felt completely different. It was kind of unsettling if she focused on the feeling too much, but there was also that gentle fizzing in the pit of her stomach that betrayed her excitement.

“You’re forgetting there’s no senior privileges here,” Betty hums, sinking into the cushion of the premium lounger beneath her—one of the many perks of knowing the owner’s daughter. 

“I’ve got  _ ownership _ privileges here, B. I could have anyone within a half mile radius fired like that.” She snaps her fingers, the sound sharp even over the hustle of the poolside. 

“You’re being dramatic,” Betty sighs, rolling her neck to look over to the girl on her left. Veronica lays her copy of  _ Lolita  _ to the side and a passing mother tuts as she catches sight of the lollipop-emblazoned cover. Veronica makes sure she lifts her shades and tilts the brim of her hat so the woman can get a clear view of her face. 

“Good afternoon,” she smiles brightly. Recognition flickers and the mother ushers her child away with an ashen face. 

“You’ve got to stop doing that,” Betty tuts, trying to tamp down her own smile. She has to admit she’ll never get used to the affect Veronica Lodge has on people, especially around the premises of The Lodge Resort. 

Veronica’s smile turns coy, amusement gleaming in her shadowed eyes. “It’s my prerogative,” she says innocently, despite her expression. “And officially, to return to your point,” she continues, examining the shade of her arms, “we’re no longer seniors. We are officially out of the system until September, when the wretches of higher education will once again claim us as their own.” 

“Have you been watching too many classics again?” 

“It’s not my fault! Archie gives me after hours access to the theatre room,” she defends, flipping her hair over her shoulders so she can hold them up towards the sun. 

Betty raises her eyebrows. Archie’s unmissable as the only redhead who works on the resort staff, usually as an underling for the Activities Director. Betty’s seen him caddying for Veronica's dad out on the green on the occasion she’s had to suffer walking out to meet her friend there, but didn’t know he was speaking to the heiress herself. “You know you could get in there without Archie’s keys—it’s your  _ privilege _ , remember?” 

“Yes, but that’s not all he’s giving me.” Veronica winks over the edges of her oval sunglasses. 

Betty’s mouth drops open in shock with an almost audible pop. She takes off her sunglasses completely. “Veronica!” she whispers, scandalised.

“Oh, please. Don’t go all  _ Like A Virgin _ on me, I know even you aren’t the blind to Archie’s assets.”

To say she hadn’t noticed would be lying. It was hard to ignore the sculpted muscles and winning smile that seemed to be gifted purely by genetics, all topped off with a crop of glowing red hair. Archie Andrews stood, tall and strong, the apple of many Riverdale girls’ eyes—the epitome of the boy next door. 

For Betty, that part was true enough. She’d grown up living next to the Andrews family her entire life. Many a play date had been arranged in their respective backyards, particularly after Mr Andrews had built his son a treehouse in the old oak that grew over into the Cooper yard. 

She used to have a fantasy that he would be  _ her  _ boy next door.

But when she’d turned fourteen and her mom had started making hints as to how delighted she’d be if the pair were sweethearts it took some of the shine out of her daydream. They spent less time together after he made the football team, but neither seemed to mind all that much.

“I thought your dad told the staff that fraternising with the guests was forbidden,” Betty says instead, ignoring the bait. 

Veronica waves a hand dismissively, her fresh manicure catching the light. “What Daddy doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Besides, he thinks Archie’s an upstanding young fellow who is an invaluable addition to Lodge Resort’s summer staff.” 

Betty shakes her head. She’d never been able to understand, nor replicate, Veronica’s carefree ways. That’s to say she’d never been inclined to be so care _ less _ as her friend was. Her mother had drummed into her from an early age that planning and surety were the only ways to avoid becoming a failure. And failure wasn’t part of the vocabulary in the Cooper household. 

“Just be careful, V. I don’t want you to get hurt,” she worries, unable to settle back into the relaxed, toasted state she’d been in before. She senses rather than sees the eye roll that’s directed her way. 

“Oh, please. You’re such a mother hen. You’re  _ eighteen _ , Betty. You’ve got your whole life before you. I bet you can count the amount of rules you’ve broken on one hand—”

“That’s not fair! Rules are made for a reason—”

“And a little teenage rebellion also never hurt anyone. In fact, I believe it’s good for the soul. I think you’d do well to find yourself a summer rendezvous, too.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Betty scoffs, flipping over to expose her back. She tugs at the material of her pink swimsuit, making sure it still covers everything. “Someone always gets hurt with things like that. And anyway, what would be the point in starting anything now when, you said yourself, we’re all leaving in a few months?” 

“I didn’t say you had to slip on a promise ring or anything! Just a little fling to get you all warmed up for college.” 

“That’s gross.” It’s not that Betty believes she’s a prude or anything. She’s been on dates with a few boys and even let Trev Brown fondle her chest over her sweater when they made out in his car at the Sweetwater Lookout. She just didn’t have the same attitude towards love and lust that Veronica did. Or the energy, for that matter. In her experience, the daydream always turned out to be better than the reality.

She liked comfort and familiarity. She found it hard to look someone in the eye, let alone have their tongue in her mouth when they’d barely spoken two words to each other. Not opening herself up to the possibility of  _ something  _ with someone was a way to protect herself, from heartbreak—from failure. From making an irreparable fool of herself. Even if she wanted to be like Veronica she doesn’t think she would even know  _ how _ to be at this point. 

The rational part of herself knew it was just another facet of her life that she was controlling with rules and regulations. That she was taught to consider things from all angles first. To seek perfection in everything. And that same rational part knew whose laws of life she’d been following since she could walk...

Betty gratefully considers the conversation over when she hears nothing more than an exasperated sigh. Her relief is short lived. 

“What about that DJ that couldn’t stop smiling at you at the disco on Friday night?” Veronica hums thoughtfully after a blissful intermission. 

Betty wrinkles her nose. “He played  _ Careless Whisper _ six times.” 

“I’m just trying to provide options! But you’re right; he did seem like the type to have a secret murder bunker in the woods.” The sounds of splashing water and joyful screams take over for a moment. “How about that waiter that can’t stop looking at your legs right now?” 

Betty sits up quickly, little sparks swimming before her eyes. She tucks her legs beneath her towel and surveys the poolside. “What, who? If you’re messing with me I swear…” 

“Don’t have a coronary. Over by the bar, the one with the dark hair.  _ Be discreet _ ,” she adds in a hushed tone, sliding her sunglasses further up her nose. 

Betty replaces her own sunglasses, pushing the hearts flush against her eyes to hide her gaze. The only dark haired body she can see in the waiters’ all whites has his head ducked behind the bar, hands busy with something she can’t see. She’s about to curse Veronica out for being so cruel but then she sees it. 

From over the pool his eyes flick up, just for a second, before they drop back down to whatever he’s doing. He’s seen her looking back, she’s sure of it. The waiter is cast in shadow from where he stands, but Betty inherited her eagle eye from her mother—he’s blushing.

“Who is that? Do you know him?” she murmurs, shielding her face with a palm. 

Veronica squints in an altogether non-discreet way. “Mm, don’t think so. Must be one of the new summer hires.” She claps her hands so suddenly that Betty jumps. “Wait, I think Archie mentioned him when we were over by the cabana the other night. He’s got a super weird name or something. I can’t say my attention was fully on the conversation...”

Now that he’s been pointed out Betty can’t stop sneaking glances at him, checking for what exactly, she can’t name. He’s probably not even looking at her after all—from eighteen years of being Betty it’s not like she’s collected much evidence to support Veronica’s theory. She notes several features that even she can’t deny are cute; he’s got a defined jaw and a degree of broadness to his shoulders despite a lean frame, and a lock of that dark hair falls over his eyes as he bends his head to his task in a way that’s pretty mesmerising. 

Betty finds herself imagining the scenario where he  _ was  _ looking at her, what he might be thinking. Does he think she’s pretty? Does he like her legs? She has to admit her mom’s Jazzercize tape has definitely added some extra definition to her calves that might be noticeable to others. What about her bathing suit? Is that what made him look? There’s an odd swoop in her gut that she’d like to dismiss as cramp, and her skin is starting to feel a little overheated. 

“God, it’s so hot out here,” she breathes, wiping her hand across her forehead. The subtle waves flowing across the pool surface glitter enticingly in a way that Betty imagines would sound like wind chimes if it could, and she bemoans her mom’s frequent reminders that the chlorine always turns her hair green.

“You could probably use a drink, then.” 

It happens in some kind of horrible slow motion—like the kind from a dream, where you need to run but your feet are dragging through mud and you’re powerless to stop it. 

The waiter looks up again, his gaze still in their direction, at the precise moment Veronica lifts a dainty hand, crooking her finger, a universal beckoning. 

Betty starts to protest, but it’s no use. Her pulse skips several beats. Hiding her thoughts has never been a particularly strong suit of hers, and if her recent thoughts about this guy are anywhere near the surface she might just drop dead right on this lounger. 

In what both takes an age and no time at all, he’s standing in front of them. His eyes are as blue as the chemically enhanced water at their feet. 

“Could we get some drinks? Put them on the Lodge account. What do you want, B? Weren’t you just saying you could die for a Sex on the Beach?” Veronica might as well have thrown a spotlight on her as she sinks down as far as possible into the chair. 

The waiters rubs at the back of his neck, not meeting either of their gazes as he asks, “Can I see some ID—”

“Virgin,” Veronica coughs. There’s an uncomfortable beat. “The  _ drink _ ,” she clarifies. “And another virgin mojito for me,  _ gracias.”  _

The waiter throws another look Betty’s way, but she presses her lips firmly together, staring at the small chip in the  _ Hawaiian Orchid _ nail polish adorning her toes until he walks away. “You’re impossible. Seriously, that wasn’t funny.” The scarlet painting her cheeks definitely clashes with her swimsuit.

“ _ Seriously?  _ Come on, Betty! Not everything has to be so serious.” Veronica picks up her book again, and the dismissal is clear. “Hey, I didn’t mean to make you mad,” she adds after a pause, eyes fixed steadfastly on the page. “I just want you to have as much fun this summer as I plan to have.”

Her shoulders droop, because she knows Veronica’s right. She’s lived a lifetime of taking everything too seriously, finding it unbelievable that she could be desired in that way, waiting, waiting, waiting, because imagining a time when someone could look at her with the glint she sees thrown Veronica’s way so often is safer than actually looking for it. Hoping for it. 

Frustration bubbles in her stomach, anger following close behind. If this was the last summer of its kind, then maybe she should go out of her way to make it as memorable as possible. 

.

.

.

.

“Elizabeth is that you?” The front door clicks shut at six on the dot, the sound of her mother’s heels echoing down the hallway.

“Yeah, Mom,” Betty calls around a mouthful of cereal. It was too hot to cook a proper meal. Her mom looks at her with disdain when she enters the room, coiffed hair bouncing around her shoulders, looking just like it did when she left at seven this morning. 

“I told you not to buy that stuff—the amount of sugar in it bloats you terribly.” Alice sweeps by in a cloud of tasteful perfume and scoops the bowl out of Betty’s hands, depositing it in the sink and running the water. Betty swallows what she was chewing and looks at it mournfully, though without surprise, the marshmallows swelling before falling down the drain. “I bought salad on the way home.” 

She takes it without protest. “Thanks.” 

“How was your day? You’re home early,” she says later, when they’re sat opposite each other at the overly large dining room table. 

“I’m not staying for long,” Alice dismisses with a wave of her fork. “There’s been reports of another altercation on the southside—the fire department, police, and ambulance were dispatched to that dreadful hovel they call a bar early this evening and I want to be the first to get the scoop.” Her mother is throwing her a predatory sort of smile that Betty can only return with a grimace. “The sooner we can flush out all the deadbeats down there, the sooner this town can work on getting back to its former status.” 

“You’re relentless,” Betty blurts before she can think otherwise. 

Alice doesn’t seem to mind her slip. “Thank you, darling.” There’s no point in correcting her—Betty bites the side of her tongue, alternating between picking out the croutons to eat first and twisting the thin silver bracelet on her wrist. 

“Oh,” Alice says as she rises from her seat, plate in hand, “and your sister’s flight landed an hour ago; I said you’d be there to pick her up from the bus station at eight thirty.” It’s said in that offhand sort of way that is supposed to resemble asking a last minute favour. Undoubtedly, Betty knows, she has never had a choice in the matter, and her mom has been planning to drop this chore on her for days but hadn’t found the time to let her know. 

And why would she, Betty thinks behind the acknowledging noise she makes around her salad leaves. She’s Betty: readily available to do her mother’s bidding at a moments notice, always, and without quibble. Reliable, dependable—willing, even. Pushback is the last thing anyone would expect when asking her to do something or other, especially her family. 

“Polly’s done so well this year. Did she tell you about the internship at the  _ Times _ ? Shoot, I’m already behind.” Her mother is a graceful whirlwind, dropping most of her uneaten meal into the trash and gathering her purse from the counter. “If I wait any longer that sour-faced crone from the  _ Greendale Gazette  _ will get all the good interviews first—” she gives a gentle snort, still delicate and ladylike “—like it’s even a reputable news source. Bye, darling. Don’t forget: eight thirty!” 

The front door bangs closed behind her and there’s silence. Betty sits at the table for a while after her mom is gone, fork held limply between her fingers.

It doesn’t occur to her until she’s reaching for her keys and pulling on her still-laced sneakers that she hadn’t actually told her mom she could pick up Polly outloud. 

.

.

.

.

“Oh, Betty, I’ve missed you so much!” Her sister’s arms are tight around her the moment she’s close enough, and Betty returns the hug with equal fervour. 

“Me too, Pol.” She murmurs it into Polly’s long blonde hair like when they were kids, always so much sleeker and shinier than her own had been. Their mom had never hesitated to express how impatient Betty’s hair made her when they were younger, especially in comparison to Polly’s. 

“Has Mom driven you completely crazy yet?” Polly beams later, hopping up onto the hood of the car, tugging at the acid-washed denim of her skirt when it rides up. They’ve driven up to Sweetwater Lookout in lieu of heading straight home, a tray of Pop’s chili fries between them. Polly doesn’t wait for a reply before taking a deep pull on the straw of her cherry shake and sighing, “God, I've missed these things.” 

A sour taste coats Betty’s tongue. She doesn’t trust her voice not to come out sounding singed when she answers, so only offers a wry smile instead. An uncomfortably fluorescent waiting room flashes before her eyes; Mom’s restless nails tap against the plastic armchair; Dr Glass looks down at her with eyes that see too much. 

She’d become better at hiding things after that visit. 

Polly carries on, oblivious to the weight in her sister’s silence. “I can’t believe my baby sister is a high school graduate. You are going to  _ adore _ college,” she sings. The looks she shoots her holds a great deal of mischief, twinkling in the twilight that’s begun to descend. A blush adds to the heat of the sun-drenched day still lingering on her skin. 

“I think we might have very different experiences,” Betty says, busying herself with finding the most loaded fry. 

“Oh,  _ pshh _ ,” Polly dismisses with a wave of her hand. “It is so different when you’re out from under Mom’s thumb, believe me. There are all kinds of extracurriculars that aren’t Alice Cooper approved to get involved in.” 

“ _ Polly! _ ” Betty tries not to sound too scandalised, to be as teasing as her sister is so easily being, but even though Polly has always been the most outspoken of the two, this is a whole other facet of her that she’s never shown before. Polly’s laugh bounces off the cliff edges of the lookout, floating down on the light breeze that’s just picked up, towards the town. 

“You’re so easy, Betty. I’m exaggerating… mostly. But honestly, you just have to throw yourself into everything first semester and see what happens. It’s a total riot. And if you need to talk to me about anything then I’m only a phone call away with all my first-hand knowledge.” Through all the quips Betty can hear the solemn edge to her voice. “It’s not easy growing up a Cooper girl, we both know that. Just,” she pauses, grabbing Betty’s hand with salty fingers, damp from the condensation on her cup, “try and live a little once you get outside this place, for me if not for you. Having to live with so many regrets is not cool, trust me.”

Betty feels like there’s something there, something more specific, but Polly doesn’t offer anything more and she doesn’t push. The food dwindles and a comfortable silence spreads across the hood of the car like they do, leaning back, ankles crossed, blinking lazily up at the emerging stars as they wink back. She could stay here forever, if not for the uncomfortable feeling beginning to prickle from the soles of her feet, the thought that there’s something coming, somewhere she’s going to be running—the feeling like knowing she’s going to be late for something but still not leaving on time. 

“I don’t really know what that means,” Betty eventually gathers enough nerve to say quietly, sitting up and looking out over the slowly illuminating town below to avoid having to look her sister in the eye. “What ‘living’ is for me outside of this. I’m kinda scared that I’m gonna waste my opportunities.” Anxiety thrums with the pulse at the base of her throat as she finally speaks her concerns out loud.

“Well…” Polly begins slowly, drawing out the word, “no one really does until they get out there, y’know. I suppose it really boils down to: what do you want? It’s as simple as that. What does Betty Cooper want?” 

“Simple?” Betty echoes, unconvinced. 

“ _ Yes.” _

Betty hesitates, staring out over the sheer drop of the point, at every blinking light below, every person living a different life before her. 

“I want… to not do what I’m expected to.” That’s not it. She bites her lip, trying again. “I want to not be  _ afraid _ of not doing what people expect me to. Of what  _ I _ expect me to do. What?” 

From the corner of her eye Polly is sending a barely contained smirk her way. It’s unnerving, but in that edge-of-excitement way only a sister or a best friend can incite. “ _ What _ ?” she asks again through a laugh. 

“That’s the most un-Betty Cooper thing I think I’ve ever heard you say,” Polly replies, propping her head on her hand. “Off to a good start, little sis.”

There’s something about the approval of an older sibling that, no matter how old you get, makes you bristle with pride. Betty feels her shoulders drawing back, a tingle of something she daren’t call adrenaline dancing through her fingers. She laughs, letting go of the self-consciousness clinging to her as much as she dares.

The night has just begun to settle around them when Polly asks, quite over the rising noise of cicadas, “Has Mom said anything about Chic lately?” 

Betty freezes, catching an uneven breath. She shakes her head, not checking to see if Polly sees the movement. Her sister doesn’t say anything else.

.

.

.

.

Betty’s sneakers squeak against the linoleum of the store floor as she drags her feet around corners. Her main objective is to replace the cereal her mom had thrown out the other day—this time with a better hiding place—and recoup the popsicle supply.

She lingers by the refrigerator’s cool breeze, soothing the heat of her baked skin for a minute, until the smiling eyes of missing kids on milk cartons become a bit too vacant, frozen, and she moves on. 

Her laces almost trip her when she rounds the aisle and comes up short, all heat returning to her body in the form of a blush. Swinging a box of  _ Lucky Charms  _ under his arm is the waiter from Veronica’s resort. He’s still in his whites, but several buttons of his shirt are undone, revealing a smooth plane of chest Betty tries not to follow down. His shoes have been swapped for a pair of battered  _ Chucks _ , and most of his hair has disappeared beneath a woollen beanie that is definitely too warm for this time of year. That one rogue curl is still hanging in front of his eyes, Betty notices.

(With what she tells herself is indifference.)

Before she can get herself to turn away, he looks up, recognition pinging in his eyes. 

He lifts his eyebrows fractionally, a corner of his mouth quirking in acknowledgement. It feels weird, like seeing a teacher outside of school. Betty presses her lips together to stifle a bubble of laughter at her own ridiculousness, shaking off the thought as quickly as it comes. He’s just a boy that works at her friend’s resort. They’re about the same age, she thinks. If he’d gone to her school maybe they’d even have shared some classes. Could have been friendly. Maybe even friends. 

_ He’s just a boy _ , she thinks again. Something inside her is telling her to cast her shy smile down towards the floor and circle back around to the cereal when he’s gone.  _ Don’t be stupid _ . 

Something else inside her is tugging faintly behind her navel. It looks like Polly’s approval, and feels like standing with your toes a bit too close to the edge. 

“Hey.” Her voice is scratchy from disuse and she clears it subtly, cheeks stinging with a sudden blush. Betty squares her shoulders, jutting her chin out a bit. “Hi. You work at Lodge Resort, right? You’re a waiter there.” She has no idea where the words are coming from but come they do, fuelled further by the fact he’s still there, looking at her like he had that day over the pool. Her legs prickle in memory. 

“Yeah,” he replies slowly. There’s something a touch defensive about the reply, guarded almost. 

That need for approval strikes again. Betty pulls up her best smile and takes a tentative step towards him, reaching out to pull a box from the shelf. The blue of his eyes is no dimmer inside than it had been by the reflection of the pool. “I’m friends with Veronica Lodge. I’m Betty. Cooper.” 

“Jughead.” She can see by the way his head tilts fractionally that he’s challenging her to react to his unusual name. It  _ is _ odd, she thinks. He’s probably more than used to people commenting on it. She’s determined not to be one of them. 

“Nice to meet you, Jughead.” She’s tempted to shake his hand but resists. Neither of them make to move. He’s studying her with an almost unnerving attentiveness that makes her want to squirm. Instead Betty rallies. 

“Veronica thought you were watching me—us, the other day by the pool. Were you?” It comes out with a confidence she didn’t expect, but doesn’t dislike either. 

She’s not sure if it’s the reflection from the neon sign above them but Betty’s sure the apples of his cheeks darken a shade, but other than that he shows no sign of being caught out. It bolsters her further, fascinated to find she’s quite enjoying herself. 

“Well, watching makes it sound creepy, I wasn’t—” he fumbles, shifting on his feet. Betty folds her hands around the cereal box, hiding a smile again. “Observing, maybe.” 

She lets some of her amusement show, pleased to see a softening around his shoulders. “Observing?” Betty teases. 

There’s humour creasing the corners of his eyes now. “Yeah, I…” She watches him weighing his next words, like he’s deciding whether he’s bothered enough to share with her. “I write. I like to write, and I just find it helps to make notes about people that I see to… build up characters, I guess. The resort is a good resource.” 

“And you were making notes on me?” 

“Yes.” 

Betty’s intrigue is beyond piqued. “What kind of things did you  _ note _ ?” 

Unexpectedly, the redness returns to his cheeks and he looks down; this time she can watch as it creeps down his neck and settles at the base of his throat, exposed by his open shirt. “What things?” she presses, edging a minute step closer.

At that Jughead rocks back on his heels, making a dismissive noise in the back of his throat. “You know, resort staff aren’t supposed to fraternise with the guests. You could be putting my job in jeopardy just by standing here.” 

Betty’s ninety-nine percent sure he’s joking, and a hundred percent sure he’s deflecting, and from the shy way he meets her eyes, she can tell he knows she knows what he’s doing. 

“Last I checked,” Betty looks around, “this isn’t the resort and, technically, I’m not a guest there, I don’t pay. I was just visiting Veronica.” 

“You make a valid point, Cooper.” His lips tip into a smile, bordering on a smirk, that makes her chest flutter. He’s doing something to her—his attention is settling over her skin and skipping down her spine and doing something to her insides that she hasn’t experienced before. God, Betty hopes she isn’t sweating as much as she feels like she is.

Jughead clears his throat. “And from what I’ve heard— _ unwillingly _ , I might add—Veronica is the most flexible of all of us when it comes to that particular ruling.”

Betty laughs, the sound mixing with his own. “Believe me, I’m aware. Veronica’s interests do not extend to being tight-lipped about her conquests.” 

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” he replies, lifting a hand to rub at the back of his neck. 

“It shouldn’t. And don’t think I’ve forgotten about those notes you won’t disclose,” Betty tacks on, narrowing her eyes in jest. 

“Ahh, you don't let things go easy, do you?” 

“Rarely, if ever. It’s basically an inherited trait when your parents run the town paper and persuade you to follow in their footsteps. The school newspaper has lost a very thorough investigator,” she intones with a little shrug. 

“You were on the school paper?” She nods. “Me too. At Southside. I imagine it was a lot more organised on your side of the tracks, but the mystery of mystery meat Mondays didn’t go unsolved on my watch. Unfortunately,” he shudders. 

If Betty startled at the mention of Southside she doesn’t show it. Though it may have been ingrained in her from birth that the southern side of town was a dilapidated waste of town resources (an exact quote from her mother), Betty knows better than to believe every stigma she’s told. 

But it does make her wonder. Alice spoke of altercations over there. Increasing altercations. She wonders if Jughead has been caught up in any of that. Riverdale is a small town, the southside an even smaller part. It’s not unfeasible. 

“I should… get going.” 

Betty realises she hasn’t said anything in a minute. “Oh, shoot. Yeah, sorry, don’t let me keep you. It was nice to meet you, Jughead. Officially, I mean,” she smiles, already turning on her heel to walk away. 

“Hey, Betty?” 

“Yeah?” Her heart thuds. 

“I don’t know if you’d want to come but—Archie’s making me go to the after hours party at the resort on Saturday. Kind of like a beginning of summer thing with the staff. I figured Veronica would be going there with him. It’d be great to have someone else to third wheel it with,” Jughead says, his words a little fast, betraying his nerves. 

Betty tries not to let her smile grow too wide, ducking her head to hide it some. “Sure. I’ll check in with Veronica. God forbid I leave you to fend for yourself.” 

“Awesome. Okay. Sure. See you.” 

She watches him go, tucking an escaped lock of hair from her ponytail behind her ear, blowing out a breath.

It was almost easy, talking to him. Maybe she could do this, she thinks, moving slowly through the store. For the first summer—the last summer—she could let go of everything keeping her so tightly coiled and see where the days take her.

**Author's Note:**

> any and all 80s references are going to be very heavy handed. any and all time-related errors are because I was not yet born in the 80s and am living off a diet of teen romcoms and decade specific playlists. don't @ me, I already know.


End file.
